Page 4

He turned on his heel immediately, turning his broad back to her, and strode toward the door. He threw it open with force.

“Duncan!” he roared, the sheer volume of his voice shaking the very stones of the corridor.

The heavy, rapid thud of boots sounded as a large, battle-hardened man appeared in the doorway, his hand already resting on his broadsword.

“Me Laird?” the man asked.

“Seal the castle gates,” the Black Laird ordered, his voice cold, ruthless, and lethal. “Double the watch on the battlements. Light the warning fires on the southern ridge. Nay one enters Blackthorn Keep.”

The man’s eyes widened slightly, but he did not hesitate for a single second. “Aye, Me Laird. Right away.”

He spun and rushed down the corridor, shouting orders that echoed loudly through the dark stronghold.

When he came back, he slowly closed the door, turning back to face Mabel.

Caelan MacCarron slowly closed the door, turning back to face Mabel.

“Let’s hope we’re nae too late, lass.”

2

Sometime after the guards had taken her from Caelan’s study, she had been marched down a stone stair and into this room. She remembered little of the walk.

The heavy iron bolt slid into place on the outside of the chamber door with a loud, definitive clack.

Mabel flinched. The sound echoed through the stone room, settling deep in her chest like a physical weight. She stood frozen in the center of the plush, woven rug, her small, mud-stained hands tightly gripping the torn edges of her cloak.

She was locked in.

“Daenae let the sound frighten ye, Ma’am,” a bright, cheerful voice chirped from the far corner of the room.

Mabel turned sharply. A young woman, no older than Mabel herself, was bustling around a large copper bathing tub. She had fiery red hair tucked beneath a white linen cap and a smile that seemed too wide for a fortress built on blood and stone. She carried two heavy iron buckets of steaming water, dumping them into the tub with a loud splash.

“I am Isla,” the girl announced, wiping her damp hands on her apron. “The Laird sent me to be yer personal maid. Morag—that’s the housekeeper: a terrifying woman, truly, but she makes excellent oatcakes—she said I am to stay with ye and see to whatever ye might need.”

“He locked the door,” Mabel stated flatly. Her voice was devoid of emotion, a stark contrast to Isla’s overwhelming warmth.

“Aye, well, that is just Duncan’s men being overly cautious,” Isla dismissed with a casual wave of her hand, walking over to the four-poster bed to smooth the heavy fur blankets. “The Laird ordered two guards stationed directly outside yer door. He said ye are nae to be disturbed. They are just keeping ye safe.”

Safe.

Mabel looked toward the door. Her father’s castle had been heavily guarded too. She had watched those guards die on the battlements while she fled through the dark, suffocating tunnels beneath the earth. A heavy, locked door did not mean safety. It only meant there was nowhere left to run when the enemy finally broke through.

“Come now, let us get ye out of that ruined gown,” Isla coaxed gently, stepping closer. Her sharp, observant eyes softened as they took in Mabel’s pale, exhausted face. “Ye are trembling, Ma’am. The water is scalding hot. It will chase the chill right out of yer bones.”

“Thank ye, Isla,” Mabel whispered.

She allowed the maid to undo the stiff, muddy laces of her dress. The heavy fabric fell to the floor, leaving Mabel in her thin, damp chemise. She stepped into the copper tub, hissing as the scalding water bit into her freezing, bruised skin. The sharp scent of heather and dried lavender filled the air, a stark contrast to the smell of rain and smoke that had clung to her for days.

“The Laird ordered hot broth and fresh bread brought up for ye,” Isla chattered on, picking up a soft linen cloth and dipping it into the water. “He said ye are to eat every bite. He can be a fearsome man, but he runs a tight keep. We daenae go hungry here.”

“Have ye lived here long?” Mabel asked, her voice quiet as she stared at the cloudy water.

“All me life,” Isla said proudly, kneading the stiff, aching knots from Mabel’s shoulders. “Me father was a smith for the Laird’s father. I have seen the Laird grow from a stubborn lad into the terror of the Highlands.” She paused, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “The stories they tell about him out in the glens… they are mostly true, I’ll admit. But he is a fair laird to us.”

Mabel closed her eyes, forcing herself to stay calm. The image of Caelan MacCarron standing in the firelight flashed behind her eyelids. The brutal, jagged scar slashing across his devastatingly handsome face. The unyielding coldness in eyes the color of storm clouds.

He did not look fair. He looked capable of murder.